Chapter 24
POV: Camille:?
For too long I’d been orbiting Michael Vanderbilt, drawn to him, burned by him and pulled into his secrets like gravity. But after walking out of his office yesterday, after hearing him admit his lies with the same smooth voice he used to command boardrooms, I’d made a choice.
I was done being reactive and now I was going to play for keeps.
The company might still be his kingdom but I wasn’t going to be his pawn anymore—I refused to.
So, the next morning, I arrived at the office earlier than usual. I set my coffee on my desk and opened my laptop but instead of drafting the compliance review Marsha had asked for, I began pulling up every contract I could access.
It wasn’t snooping anymore—it was survival, purely survival.
Every clause, every footnote, every side agreement I researched. I traced signatures and cross-referenced client lists and highlighted sections. I looked for kickbacks that were disguised as consulting fees as well as payouts that were buried under discretionary budgets lines.
I was building a file.
I was building my own insurance policy just in case.
Because if Michael’s empire collapsed, there was no way I was going down with it. Not without even knowing what I signed up for in the first place.
Still, my stomach knotted as I read through the words and not just because of the implications, but because I could hear his voice in my head… “I did what I had to do, Camille.”
I shoved the thought away and focused on my screen.
By noon time, I’d built a private folder that was completely password protected.
I wasn’t stupid enough to leak anything, I wasn’t trying to blow the company up but I needed leverage and protection, I needed to take matters into my own hands.
I was proud of myself for finally thinking properly but no matter how many contracts I dissected and no matter how many protective moves I made, the fact still remained, he still had a hold on me and I couldn’t shake him from my head.
Michael.
I hated that I still cared and that I still wanted to believe him.
***
That evening, I found myself in a bar downtown, alone, I didn’t even bother calling Jenna, I knew what she would say.
The first glass of pinot went down too easily but the second glass just made me plain confused with my own emotions. But by the third glass, my phone pinged.
Michael.
Of course.
I stared at my phone screen.
I was on the edge of being drunk.
Ignore him. Block him. Let him wonder. I told myself.
Then I answered, because of course I did.
“What?” My tone was harsh.
There was a pause, then his low voice filled the phone. “Where are you, Camille?”
“None of your business.”
“Camille.” His tone was warning and intimate all at once. “Tell me.”
I laughed but there was no humor to it. “Why? So you can control this too?”
He let out a sigh. “I’m not trying to control you. I’m trying to make sure you’re safe.”
Something in me wavered, but I masked it with sarcasm out of anger. “Relax, Michael. I’m not wandering into traffic, I’m at a bar having a drink.”
“I’ll come get you.”
God, I wanted that.
Damn alcohol.
“No,” I said despite my desire.
“Yes.”
“I don’t need rescuing, Michael.”
“Maybe not but I’m coming anyway.”
Then the line went dead.
I should’ve been furious. Instead, my pulse raced with anticipation.
20 minutes later, he stood in the doorway of the bar, somehow, someway. He scanned the crowd, eyes landing on me instantly.
Heat surged through me and it was a mixture of half anger, half desire.
He was inches away from me, his intoxicating cologne wavering over me. “Let’s go.”
I glared at him. “You don’t get to order me around.”
“Fine.” His voice was calm, but I knew he wasn’t taking no for an answer. “I’m asking.”
Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the exhaustion of carrying so much anger, but I stood to my feet.
His hand brushed the small of my back as he guided me out of the bar and I hated how much I melted at the touch.
The ride to his penthouse was silent, I stared out the window, but every nerve in my body was tuned to him, his presence and his scent—even the way his thigh brushed mine when the car made an abrupt turn.
When we arrived, he opened the door for me. I wanted to refuse, to dig my heels into the sidewalk, but my body betrayed me, as it always did so I followed him upstairs.
I kicked off my heels and dropped onto the couch and buried my face in my hands. “You shouldn’t have picked me up, Michael.”
“Maybe not,” he admitted.
I felt him near me. His breath. Hot, on me. His eyes, burning a hole through me, never leaving.
And when I looked up, he was standing over me.
“What do you want from me, Michael?”
“The truth?” He knelt in front of me, his hands braced on his knees as he studied me. “You.”
My heart stuttered. “You don’t get to say that, not after everything.”
But when his hand cupped my cheek, I leaned into it instead and then his mouth was on mine—powerful—demanding.
His kiss was hungry as years of control shattered all at once.
I clutched his shirt, pulling him closer to me and onto me and drowning in him.
He lifted me effortlessly into his hands, his palms gripping my ass as he carried me toward the terrace. The cool night air hit my skin as he set me down by the hot tub.
“Michael—”
“Don’t think.” His voice was rough. “Just feel, Camille.”
He stripped his shirt and I shed my dress, knowing I shouldn’t but refusing to stop and we slipped into the hot tub slowly.
Then he grabbed my hips and yanked me towards him. My core was rubbing against his hardened member and when he entered me, I gasped loudly. He groaned against my neck, thrusting deep and unrelenting inside me.
“Camille,” he rasped, my name breaking on his lips as it did so many times before.
Another thrust.
“I wish you would—”
“What?” I moaned out, biting back the cry.
“I wish you would stop being so difficult,” he huffed out as he thrusted deeper into me.
“Difficult?” I laughed but it came out as a groan. “I’m just done letting you control me.”
“Control__” he thrusted, as if that word made him angry, possessive. “Is—” deeper this time. “What—” another deep thrust. “I do best.”
I didn’t answer.
I was too far gone, again.
I lost myself in him—his mouth, his body, the way he held me like I was both fragile and the only thing keeping him alive.
The city blurred. The water blurred. His words were forgotten.
All I knew was him.
He thrusted into my very edge this time, increasing his pace. “Stop thinking,” he murmured as his eyes found their way to mine. “Stop being difficult, just live.”
“Michael—” I began to argue as another moan escaped my mouth.
“No,” he commanded. “No more arguing.” Another thrust.
I cried out, feeling him deep inside me, and never wanting to forget how it felt. When release crashed over me, I cried out, shattering against him and he followed by letting out a loud guttural moan.
For a moment, there was nothing but silence, then reality crept back in.
Later, when he finally drifted into sleep, sprawled across the bed with his arm reaching instinctively toward the space where I lay, I stared at the ceiling, thinking again.
My body was sated, but my mind was chaos, pure chaos.
I couldn’t stay, not like this, not again.
So quietly, I slipped out from under his arm and I took one last look at him—at Michael Vanderbilt—the Michael Vanderbilt, the man I hoped I knew but I wasn’t sure and I felt as if I would never be sure, not ever.
And then I slipped out the door.
I didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. But tonight, I had taken back control, even if it was just for a moment.
I had regained my head, again, because I knew the game I was playing and I was most certainly not his pawn.